Classic Poem

I.

How went the cry in Greece, an ominous sound,
When Elatea fell — disaster dread,
Presaging Chaeronea! Is the tale read —
Is there no moral in the history found,
That we grope on, with tidings each day brought
Of outposts lost to the enemy — our foe
That saps our liberties through the popular thought,
And in our stupor, brings our virtue low.
Yet may we not despair — a nation sleeps
Not always: — she may need repose for strength,
And, at the perilous moment, break at length
Her bonds, as from his lair the lion leaps
To conquest, in the pride of all his powers: —
Ah! Chaeronea never shall be ours!

II.

We are no more a people of the free;
A change is on our fortunes — we forget
The high design that made our liberty
A thing of hope and wonder, and have set
Our hearts on earthly idols, vanities,
The childish wants of fashion, and a crowd
Of sordid appetites that clamor loud,
The eager ear of emptiness to please.
The nobler toils that only to high thought,
Patience and inward struggle yield the prize,
Are ours no longer; — we no more devise
Conquests of self and fortune; — all unwrought
That glorious vein our fathers struck of yore,
Which, left unwork'd, but makes us doubly poor.

III.

Sudden, the mighty nation goes not down,
There is no mortal fleetness in its fate;
Time, — many omens — still anticipate
The peril that removes its iron crown
And shakes its homes with ruin! Centuries
Fleet by in the long struggle; and great men
Rush mounted to the breach where victory lies,
And personal virtue brings us life again!
Were it not thus, my country! — were this hope
Not ours, — the present were a fearful time;
Vainly we summon mighty hearts to cope
With thy oppressors, — vanity and crime —
These ride thee, as upon some noble beast,
The scoundrel jackal, hurrying to his feast.

IV.

Would we recall our virtues and our peace?
The ancient teraphim we must restore;
Bring back the household gods we loved of yore,
And bid our yearning for strange idols cease.
Our worship still is in the public way, —
Our altars are the market-place; — our prayer
Strives for meet welcome in our neighbor's ear,
And heaven affects us little while we pray.
We do not call on God, but man, to hear; —
Nor even on his affections; — we have lost
The sweet humility of our home desires,
And flaunt in foreign fashions at rare cost;
Nor God our souls, nor man our hearts inspires,
Nor aught that should to God or man be dear.